


Five Days

by flovahkiin



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 08:51:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2263443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flovahkiin/pseuds/flovahkiin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Oh, Maker's breath, I apologize," He says, all contrition, "Far be it from me to distract my Warden-Commander from her tedious paperwork."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>She's waiting for something else, and his apologetic expression fades into a grin.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Am I to be punished?"</i>
</p>
<p>Five days is a long time. Following a patrol into the Deep Roads, Alistair seeks a welcome home from his Warden-Commander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Days

"I have never, in my life, been more glad to see a crumbling old keep," Alistair says, and the honesty in the lighthearted quip actually surprises him. Amaranthine and its keep are in perfect view as he and the others reach the crest of the hill, the pre-dawn fog catching the light of the sun as it rises and gives the city an almost ethereal glow.

Patrols are never usually so grueling - he knows this - and yet it feels as if the Darkspawn had been dredging up the last remains of organized indignation to make his life a living hell. The last five days have been just that - agonizing, painful, sleepless. He can't even count the number of times he'd been brought back from the edge by one of Anders' rejuvenation spells.

Blinking against the grittiness behind his eyes, Alistair sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Something flakes off his forehead and he grimaces, and ugh, Darkspawn blood is even dried up under his fingernails.

His priorities shift. Bathing is suddenly more important than even sleeping.

_Hah,_ he thinks to himself, _I'm actually concerned about bathing. Wynne would be so proud._

"It's not crumbling," Nathaniel mutters, always prickly when it comes to matters of Howe pride. Anders chortles, steps up to his side and puts his hands on his hips, just as appreciative of the view.

"I bet you say that to all the crumbling old keeps in your life!" Nathaniel's protest - 'It's not crumbling, it's being rebuilt!' - is drowned out by Alistair's laugh. Maker, is he ever appreciative of the mage's endlessly positive outlook.

"I bet there's _another_ reason you're glad t'be back. Randy little pike twirler," Oghren says suggestively as he comes up from behind. Alistair finds himself laughing with far less enthusiasm as Anders chokes on air before guffawing and- Maker, even Nate is smirking. Ears burning - and he's sure he's blushing hard enough to light a room - he rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed and no longer smiling.

"You all should be hanged. Evil people," He mutters, but that only inspires more laughter because he didn't deny what Oghren said. The dwarf is telling the truth and they all know it. Alistair remains stubbornly quiet for the rest of the trip back, though the needling doesn't stop.

***

He tries to curb his enthusiasm, then, when they finally find themselves inside the Keep's courtyard, affecting nonchalance when all he wants to do is run up those steps and head straight for the Warden-Commander's quarters.

They see right through him. The fifth time Anders catches him glancing towards the stairs he rolls his eyes.

"Go, then. Give the Warden-Commander a _personal_ report," The mage says, wagging his eyebrows and even having the audacity to shoo him away with a hand gesture. Alistair scowls at him but he's never been one to refuse an escape when it's offered. Five days is a _long_ time.

"He'll give her more than that!" Oghren is roaring as he takes the steps two at a time, "Get some!" It's absolutely infuriating but Alistair can't stop himself from grinning, a breathless chuckle bursting from him throat.

He asks the first servant he meets to send a hot bath up to the quarters, though it takes him longer than expected to actually get to his destination. He's been here for all of six months and he still can't make sense of all the corridors and wings - but then, he's never been accustomed to castles nor keeps, and his upbringing didn't do him any favors. He'd been out in Redcliffe's stables more than he'd been inside its hallways.

Regardless, he finds himself in front of the rooms and- hesitates. Maybe he should have bathed first. Nervously, Alistair runs a hand through his hair, aware that he must look quite a sight, aware that Ceren will not care, but wanting to impress anyway.

He shakes his head, clears his throat. Maybe she'll join him. The thought is enough to make him push open the door, peering around its edge with a grin and a quip on the tip of his tongue, except-

Ceren's not there. The room is completely empty, though the fire crackles merrily.

He takes a step further inside, disappointment tugging down the corners of his lips. It's not- unexpected, really, she's not in her rooms all the time, but he'd held out hope that he'd step in and he could sweep her up into his arms or something, crusty as he is with darkspawn blood.

_Ergh._ Just the thought is enough to distract him from the unexpected let-down. His eyes feel heavy and gritty all over again, and the huge bed in the center of the room looks so welcoming. He yawns, a huge, jaw-cracking thing, and promptly comes to the decision that he can make the most of his lover's absence. Steams wafts softly upward from the bath in the corner of the room, and he grins. At least she'll come back to him smelling pretty and squeaky clean.

Alistair hums lightly under his breath, already at ease, and busies himself with stripping from his armor, a chore in itself since he's on his own. _Gorget, pauldron, tasset. Breastplate-_ and _oh_ , it's a relief to take it off. It's been sitting on his hips for so long that he's sure they're bruised. He's soon down to his chainmail and sweaty gambeson, and he doesn't even want to imagine what his underclothes are like.

He peels them from his skin as he walks towards the bath, and when he sinks down into the water, he sighs long and low. It's the most heavenly feeling. He loves baths. His aching muscles relax all at once and his head lolls over the stone rim, and it's not so difficult to ignore the stinging of the lingering cuts on his knuckles and all over the rest of his body.

Unable to gather the will to wash his body down, Alistair soaks for a long time, and it's only when the water is lukewarm that he tiredly, bonelessly, forces himself to sit up and run the washcloth along his skin and over his face.

By the time he's done, the water is no longer clear, and he spares it a disgruntled glance as he stands. He'd been dirtier than he thought.

He's glad, now, that Ceren isn't around, and as he roots around for a spare tunic and leggings that he knows are in the room, his stomach gives a loud rumble. He hasn't eaten in hours but- Maker, he's so tired, his eyelids weigh like worlds, pulling even his shoulders down into a tired slump. He doesn't even register his desicion to forego dinner until, freshly washed and clothed, he's pulling the covers of the bed down.

He falls asleep within moments, unable to even pull the blanket around his shoulders.

***

He wakes suddenly, shades of an unnerving nightmare pressing sharp behind his eyelids, and it takes Alistair a long moment to gather his bearings, to reestablish the sight of the bed's high canopy with feelings of safety and home. He blinks slow and bleary and rolls over, passing a hand over his face to wipe away the last vestiges of darkspawn-infested dreams.

A faded scratching sound catches his attention. He sits up and braces himself on an elbow, lips twitching at the too-familiar sight of Ceren writing away at her desk. Her eyes flick up at his movements, but she's far too absorbed in whatever she's writing to spare him a longer glance.

"You were asleep when I got back," She says, and his smile widens at the sound of her voice and the way she resolutely dots the end of a sentence before placing the quill down before finally looking at him. "I didn't want to wake you."

"My lady is too kind," He drawls, flopping back onto his stomach to stretch his protesting muscles and wrapping himself around the closest pillow he can find. He rubs his face tiredly against it before turning his head to stare at her again, soaking her in, still grinning. Five days is a long time. "I hope my snoring wasn't too distracting."

He'd meant it as a joke, clearly, but she only shrugs.

"I'm used to it."

_That_ makes him sit up. "I don't snore!" He exclaims indignantly, and her lips twitch.

"How would you know, if you're asleep while you do it?" She replies, perfectly reasonable, perfectly logical, perfectly _Ceren_ , Maker damn her, and he sputters while he searches for an answer.

"I don't!" He repeats, aghast, for lack of anything else to say, "Do I?"

"Not loudly." She's focusing on her work again with a perfectly planned show of nonchalance, shaping her fingers around the quill, "You mumble, too. Rub your face. Leliana always thought it was very cute."

_"Leliana_ thought-" He starts, hit all at once with memories of the 'girl talk', that she and Ceren supposedly had. The _bane_ of his existence, and they both knew it. But she's looking up again, a certain quirk to the corners of her mouth, and it occurs to him that his Warden-Commander is looking for a rise.

"Ooh, you _terrible_ , awful elf," He grumbles, gripped with the sudden desire to throw one of the pillows right at her. Only the idea that it would genuinely irritate her and ruin her work stops him.

"You wound me," He says instead, thickening his voice in a show of hurt. She only snorts, and Alistair finds himself grinning. He's missed this- this special banter between them. The long two years they'd spend defeating the Blight, always together, makes it hard for him to grow accustomed to her absence, but makes him more appreciative whenever they're together again.

He covers a yawn with his hand and stands, padding over to the desk to pull a chair behind her own in such a way that it allows him to wrap his arms around her from behind. He's absolutely content to just hold her like this, resting his chin heavy on her shoulder and staring sightlessly at whatever she's writing.

He basks in the presence of her. Ceren barely acknowledges him beyond a slight shifting of her shoulder to make both of them comfortable.

Acting on impulse, Alistair turns his head and drags his lips up along the side of her neck, stubble catching on the dark skin there. It's an unconscious, affectionate gesture. The scratching of her quill pauses for just a split second, but he catches onto the slip like a shark to blood.

His lips curl into a devious grin. No longer is he content to leave his hands at her waist - no, he drags them hot and slow up her sides and to her shoulders, pressing his lips against her neck with far more resolve than before.

Ceren knows exactly what he's doing. He knows she knows. She keeps writing, regardless, though there's a tension to her shoulders that is completely telling.

He _will_ get a reaction out of her - and he knows exactly how to do so, but he'll take his sweet time with it. Ah, revenge.

Far from tired, now, Alistair splays his palms over her shoulders and sweeps them down along her arms. He brings a hand up to undo the leather thong that keeps her hair tied high, delighted in running his fingers through the soft strands. His fussing exposes the back of Ceren's neck and he sweeps her hair over one shoulder to press a soft, lingering kiss there.

He moves to her ears, then, with deadly intent. This is where it ends.

His thumb skirts along the back of her ear, right to the tip, dragging his lips up and over to flirt with the skin where it meets her skull. This makes her exhale, a short, sharp sound, and nothing is so satisfying than watching her shoulders hunch.

He pulls back and waits, smug. The sensitivity of her ears always works to his advantage.

"You're distracting me," She says after a moment, turning her head just so to pin him with an irate sort of glare. She's not genuinely annoyed, he can tell.

Alistair lifts his hand to his mouth in mock innocence, forcing his eyes wide.

"Oh, Maker's breath, I _apologize,_ " He says, all contrition, "Far be it from me to distract my Warden-Commander from her tedious paperwork."

She's waiting for something else, and his apologetic expression fades into a grin.

"Am I to be punished?" He whispers, but she's already looking away, and Alistair holds his breath, a curious sort of anticipation speeding up his heart and making him pulse in all sorts of curious places.

"Get on the bed," She says, finally, and his breath escapes him in a breathless chuckle as he stands and half knocks over the chair to do just that. He leaps onto the bed hard enough that it creaks, adjusting himself into a reclining position and stretching his arms behind his head. Ceren is watching him from the desk.

When he waggles his eyebrows, she only rolls her eyes and continues to write, though there's a certain kind of haste to the task, and he prides himself on inspiring such a reaction. She won't come over until she's satisfied with the amount of work she's done, Alistair knows, but he can wait, even if he's already half-hard from anticipation.

But he is not so distracted by his thoughts that he takes no notice when there's movement from her side of the room. Ceren is smoothing down pages and organizing her desk, all while pinning him with a very promising stare. His lips twitch as he gazes right back, resting a hand on his stomach.

Knowing she's trying to prolong the wait does not stop him from opening his arms for her when she does pad across the room to meet him, her pronounced limp making the journey slow. Ceren crawls onto the bed and straddles his waist and Alistair sighs, not only because it feels good but because he loves having her so close.

"I missed you," He murmurs, bringing his hands up to tuck her unbound hair behind her ears. She only hums and braces herself on his chest, the tender moment a precursor to something else entirely, and when she slants her lips over his he raises his knees that he might better cradle her in his hips. She presses down onto him, onto the bulge in his trousers, hips circling, and he jerks, hands fumbling at her waist, moaning soft into her open mouth.

Her hand slides to the back of his neck, long nails scraping along his scalp and goosebumps explode along his arms because- Maker, her kisses are turning rough, she's sucking his lower lip between her teeth and tugging and it feels so good. She always takes charge like this and he loves it. Her lips move from his and he mumbles a noise of protest, though it quickly turns breathless as her attention shifts to his neck and he tilts his chin up to give her more access.

Ceren is running her hands up and down his sides, thumbing his nipples through the fabric of his tunic and- and he's already so far gone, his entire world is her and what she's doing and so it's not that much of a surprise when he finds himself barely listening as she murmurs something into his ear. A pinch to his side snaps him out of this pleasure-induced haze as easy as a bucket of water, and he swallows thickly as he meets her stern gaze.

"Did you hear me?" She asks, and he stares, uncomprehending, "You're not allowed to come." He drops his head onto the pillow and makes a noise high in his throat because of course, this is his punishment, and the knowledge fills him with simultanious excitement and dread, because he's not allowed to come but damned if she won't try to make him do just that. That's the point of this- this game.

It's the best game _ever._

"Understand?" She asks, and he tries to find some semblance of clarity in the heated, aroused mush that is his brain.

"Perfectly," He breathes, somewhat weakly, and she leans close to press her thumb to his lips and breathe a single word over them.

"Strip." It takes a moment for the order to register, and it's only when she looks down at him expectantly does it sink into his brain. A breathless chuckle coats his next exhale as he hurries to do her bidding, shaking hands going straight to the hem of his tunic. Urgency makes his movements quick, jerky. Apparently, hurrying isn't what Ceren wants, and the hand she puts to his chest stops him.

"Slowly," She says, and there's a glitter of _something_ in her eyes that makes mischief rear up in him.

"You want a show, is that it?" He drawls, and there's something of an impudent edge to his grin. Ceren pinches his chin and leans close. A warning, he knows, but Alistair really can't help the swell of his ego that follows the knowledge of her desiring him.

"Cheeky." There's an amused glimmer in her eyes, the beginnings of a blush on her cheeks, and his brow only lifts higher. "I could come up with a better punishment, if you like."

"No, no!" He says hastily. He's very content with their current situation, though he can't deny the flicker of curiosity in the back of his mind at the idea. Another time, maybe, he thinks, waiting for her to lean back into the seat of his upraised thighs, before reaching for his hem again. He _does_ take his time, and feels faintly embarrassed to do so, but at least the shirt is hiding his face as he tugs it up.

When it's past his head and his arms he crumbles the material into a ball, looking slowly - uncertainly - up at her. He's- Well, the intense look in her eyes isn't entirely unexpected, but it still takes him by surprise whenever it strikes him that she does, genuinely, desire him. Their past is a bumpy one (that's an understatement, truly) and Ceren has never been open with emotions or affections, and it- it's always a revelation when she does something that makes him realize that she cares for him just as much as he does for her.

She plucks the tunic from his hands and throws it on the floor, running her hands up along his stomach and if he'd been feeling a tad self-conscious he certainly isn't now, exhaling a stuttering breath right as her lips descend on his again. He lifts his hips up into hers, the heavy pressure between his legs _demanding_ some sort of friction, and when he fumbles with the laces of his leggings it is as much to follow her instructions as it is to get some relief.

It's half impossible to try to work the leggings off while she's so intent on kissing him, and it comes as an amazing, _wonderful_ discovery that working them off with his legs _also_ moves her against his crotch, and suddenly it's not such a chore. There's one less layer, now, between them, though there's a distant part of his mind that laments her... fully-clothedness.

Intent on making up for this, Alistair slides his hand from her shoulder-blades to cup her breasts and squeeze. It gives both of them pause, the air between their mouths hot and heavy and- she tilts her head back and hums and he can't not take that for encouragement, pressing his forehead to her shoulder as he kneads at the flesh, dragging his thumbs over her rapidly pebbling nipples. Ceren gasps at that, a rare sound from a normally silent lover, and he groans into her collarbone.

She retakes control flawlessly, grinding herself down into him and tugging his hair until he exposes his neck and she licks and kisses and suckles at the skin there and- it's all he can do, really, to grab her hips and swallow hard and try not to focus too hard on what she's doing, the echoes of her order still in his head.

It's not long before sweat starts to bead at his temples, and she's only getting started. Her kisses are dragging lower, over his sternum and his chest and down- _down-_ and Alistair drops his head heavily onto the pillows with a choked sigh, clenching his fingers hard into the bedsheets. He feels her working his smallclothes down and his jaw tightens- her breath gusts over the exposed tip of his cock and the muscles of his neck strain against the flushed skin there.

A moan escapes his chest, long and low, at the slick, wet heat of her mouth. He's not sure how long she works at him- long enough, certainly, that he curls his toes against the hot, heavy tension low in his gut and tries to think of nothing because he's not allowed to come, he understands that.

"Report," He hears, and, blearily, he lifts his head and stares at her, between his legs and before his cock, forefinger and thumb wrapped daintly around its base. The sight enough nearly undoes him.

"W-What?"

"A report," She says again, sucking the tip into her mouth almost casually before releasing it with a vulgar sucking sound. His hips jerk and he makes a strangled sound, rubbing his hand ferociously over his sweaty brow. "I want a report on your patrol into the Deep Roads."

For a moment he can't quite believe she's asking this, asking _now_ , and in a fit of hysterical humor he remembers Anders talking about a personal report and thinks that it can't get more personal than this, but regardless Alistair desperately and valiantly tries to scrape together the floating fragments of his mind and _answer_.

"There were-" He starts, except his breath catches because as soon as he talks she's sinking her mouth down on him, tongue sliding along the underside of his cock. He squeezes his eyes shut because when he stops talking she takes her mouth from him and stares expectantly and he's not sure if he wants to continue at all because this _torture_ , his cock hot and aching but he's so desperate for some sort of relief that he starts again.

"There were pockets of Darkspawn," He says breathlessly, eyes flicking down to her working away at his cock, head bobbing, "And they were- They were- Augh-" He loses his train of thought as one of her hands move to cup his balls, and his hips jerk and his thighs flex and he shakes his head as if that will get rid of the burning pressure in his gut. Alistair covers his face with his hand, air whistling through his teeth as he gasps.

He can't do this. Dragging in a breath that's almost like a sob, he strains his hips upward as she pulls away from him, trying vainly not to think of pulling her underneath him and sinking into her.

"Please," He hears himself gasping, because he wants- _wants-_ so badly it's maddening, and she's the only one who can give him relief. The bed tilts and shifts and he opens his eyes to Ceren crawling up along his body and he thinks yes- _yes,_ she's taken pity on him, and he fumbles desperately with the hem of her soft cotton jerkin, needing her skin against his.

But she grabs his wrist, presses her lips to his, hard, and says in a tone that books no argument, "I come first." And Maker if that demand doesn't half shut off his brain, because he reads the demand under the demand and knows that it has to be _him_ to make her do so. It's an unwritten sort of thing. He exhales sharply against her lips and nods his eager approval, running his hands up her stomach and sides and sliding her jerkin off.

Alistair tugs her to him when the jerkin and breastband are beside his tunic on the floor, taking a certain sort of reassurance from the heated press of their skin. He cups a breast and pushes at her shoulder and flips their positions effortlessly, and its almost a blessing that she'd asked him to do this because it's something other than the hot heavy weight between his legs that he can focus on.

Knees either side of her hips, it takes a moment for him to compose himself- to steel himself, and he presses his sweat-slick forehead to hers and swallows hard. Unable to help himself, he wraps his hands gently into her hair and brushes a few soft kisses over her lips, but Ceren has never been the patient kind and the hot press of her hips into his prompts his lips to move lower, over her chin and to her neck and the soft dip in her collarbone.

There are freckles all over her body. He makes the effort to kiss all of them, always, even if she's making impatient sounds, even if the writing of her body underneath him is an absolute sin. He knows exactly how to play with her small breasts to make her tug at his hair, and belatedly Alistair thinks that maybe this was a bad bad idea because her sounds and her pleasure are doing nothing for the half-painful throbbing of his cock. It's not a distraction, it's- it's exacerbation.

He sighs over her stomach, softened some from months of inactivity and recovery, and slides his thumbs under her trousers, and what he finds under her smallclothes makes it an absolute requirement to press his brow to her hip and gather himself. She is _saturated_ and the evidence of her desire for him is... it's overwhelming. Wasting no time, Alistair presses his thumb to the swollen nub between her legs, fingers splaying across her middle as the muscles there tense.

With a gusting sigh he replaces his thumb with his tongue, flattening it against her and relishing in her faint, musky taste. Fingers grip at his sweat-damp hair and he groans, feeling overwarm, forcing himself not to grind into the bed because that will get him nowhere. This is his entire world: the flex of her stomach as her hips jerk and roll, the sweet pressure of her thighs as they press against his head. There is nothing but her quiet breathless sounds and the soft smacking of his mouth as he gives her pleasure, and when Alistair takes a moment for himself to look up from between her legs, his fingers tighten on her thighs to the point of bruising because there is no better sight in the world than this: Ceren's head thrown back, breasts heaving with pants, her body gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat.

His heart _aches-_ he never thought he'd be here, Not-King and with the woman he loves, and the thought is always enough to overwhelm him.

But he's paused for too long and his name is a frustrated oath on her lips before he has the wherewithal to keep going, rubbing circles into her hipbones. It always catches him by surprise, when she comes, in the distant sense of someone taken aback by their own abilities, but he cannot deny the profound relief that he has managed it, crawling up along her body while her back is still bowed off the bed. Panting heavily, sweat dripping from his nose, he hooks her leg over his shoulder and though urgency makes his hand shake he still manages to take himself in hand and press slowly into her and- _oh._

His breath catches in his lungs and- the slick wet heat of her is almost too much, and she mumbles a noise when he hilts fully and presses his brow into the stretch of skin between her neck and shoulder and baring his teeth _MakerMakerMaker_ \- Her free leg slides around his hip, heel digging into his spine and he takes this for permission, pulling almost completely out before rocking into her, hard, pressing his lips together against the hoarse moan that threatens.

Time is nothing, it dwindles into the press of his hips into hers and the breath suspended in his lungs and his chest that feels almost constricted, because he feels like he's hanging from a cliff and needs only to drop but he can't, he can't let go and his thrusts become desperate he is so _close_ , hiding his face in her neck as he grabs a fistful of her hear and moans, a sobbing thing.

He drives himself into her, toes sliding against the sheets, and in a gesture that is explained only by how well she knows him, Ceren whispers his name into his ear and drives her hips hard against his, nails scraping along his back and- that's it, he's-

Two short, jerky thrusts and he comes undone, every nerve in his body set alight. He grabs her hips, desperately, lips stretched in a feral grin, needing an anchor in this flood of pleasure made all the better for its slow build, and he can hear nothing but the hard fast thumping of his pulse in his eardrums. For an immeasurable moment he is just- floating, every muscle tense, and when he comes down from his high he can barely keep himself upright, lethargically grasping her leg and setting it back on the bed with a lingering kiss to the side of her knee.

He pulls out and flops to the side, breathless and sated, and for long minutes they both lie there until the sweat on their skin starts to cool.

Blearily, he fights to open his eyes, filling his chest with air until he's lightheaded, and exhales a tired sigh. Alistair rolls onto his side, reaching forward with ease to grab her hip and pull her close. She's even more boneless than he his, incapable of anything more than curling herself into him as he wraps his entire body around her. Hand splayed along the space between her shoulder blades, he tangles his legs with hers and presses a kiss to her temple.

"I love you," He whispers, and true to form she does nothing but exhale, a sighing hum, but it's an acknowledgement where there's usually none. He brings his hand up to brush wayward strands of hair from her face and tuck them behind a tapered ear. They're both quiet, then, basking in the quiet company of one another and when Ceren yawns he huffs a low, amused laugh. His eyes are just getting heavy, fluttering closed to the soft rhythm of her breaths.

He's sure she's asleep but she moves, and his arms tighten around her because what is she doing, trying to get up?

"More work," Ceren mutters, an explanation, and Alistair grumbles, refusing to release her from the cage of his arms.

"It can wait."

"It can't," She insists, but she's not making any effort to release herself from him. If she genuinely wanted to, she'd be able to, he knows this. Somewhat smugly, Alistair tucks her head under her chin and drags the blanket up to cover them both, certain that this time his sleep will be dreamless.

_That was the best welcome home ever._


End file.
